We’ve long been fans of Dana, her soulful voice, powerful lyrics, and the authenticity she brings to every performance have resonated deeply with us as a family. Dana isn’t just a talented artist; she’s a storyteller, a cultural bridge, and a voice for a generation rediscovering its roots.
From her early days performing under the name King Deco to her evolution into a proudly Arabic-language artist, Dana’s journey is one of transformation, reclamation, and resilience.
In this conversation, she opens up about the inspirations behind her music, her return to Jordan, and how tenderness can be revolutionary, especially for women from cultures where strength is often expected to look a certain way.
Keep reading for a heartfelt, powerful, and deeply human interview with Dana Salah, an artist who continues to redefine what it means to sing from the soul.
Zenith: To begin, could you tell our readers a bit about who you are, especially for those who might not be familiar with your story?
Dana Salah: Of course. My name is Dana Salah. I’m a Palestinian-Jordanian artist. I was born and raised in Jordan, and after graduating from Duke University in North Carolina, I moved to New York City to pursue a career in music under the name King Deco. At the time, I felt I had to leave my country and shed parts of my identity to have a viable career in music.
Fast forward to 201, through a series of quite serendipitous events, I found myself back in Jordan, making music in Arabic and reconnecting with my roots, culture, and heritage. I’d always loved songwriting, even as King Deco, but something felt missing. I didn’t realise until later that what was missing was my Arab identity. Writing songs in Arabic, something I never imagined doing, brought that full circle.
Your new track, Bent Bladak, is incredibly powerful, the title itself is striking. Can you walk us through the inspiration behind the song, its name, and how the creative process unfolded?
Definitely. I tend to go through cycles, phases of deep creative output, and others where I’m just absorbing, almost like a sponge. I had just come out of one of those ‘intake’ periods and was ready to write again. I knew I wanted to write a love song, but all I could think about was this story I’d just finished working on, about Palestinian women who used to stand outside prison walls and sing in coded language to their imprisoned loved ones. They would communicate escape plans or messages through song. That idea stayed with me.
I remember being on a treadmill, thinking how incredibly creative, powerful, and loving those women were. It made me reflect on how women, especially in our culture, are often seen as soft or passive, yet they’re the backbone of their families and communities. Whether it’s holding a home together or breaking boundaries in male-dominated spaces, that strength is undeniable. I wanted to honour that.
You mentioned the code these women used, a specific letter added between words?
Yes! When Palestinian women’s husbands were captured, they needed a secret way to communicate with them. They’d insert the Arabic letter “L” between syllables to mask the real meaning. I stumbled upon a recording of it while doom scrolling on Instagram, completely spaced out, then suddenly transfixed. I couldn’t stop listening.
And yet you still managed to make it a love song.
Exactly. At its core, it’s about love. The underlying message is: if you end up with a Palestinian woman, or any woman, really, from a culture of strength, consider yourself lucky. There’s so much resilience built into us, often in the quietest ways.
That brings us to something you’ve said about the song, describing it as a “reclamation of tenderness” as a revolutionary act. Could you expand on that?
Sure. I think if I were to divide my musical career into two books, the first would be King Deco. Back then, I felt the need to lead with strength, I chose “King” intentionally, a powerful, gender-neutralising word. I’d left home, my family, my friends, studied economics, and moved to NYC to chase this dream. There was a lot of force behind that.
But chapter two began when I returned home, physically and creatively. I was once again surrounded by family, by the people I grew up with. That’s when I started embracing a different kind of strength, one rooted in softness, community, connection. I realised tenderness isn’t weakness. It’s powerful. And in many ways, revolutionary.
One of the striking things about your music is your voice. It’s haunting, strong, yet deeply feminine. Where do you draw that from?
Funny you say that, it’s something that’s come up in meetings a lot lately. But I never used to think of my voice that way. No one in my family sings. I wasn’t “meant” to sing. I learnt by ear. So when people say that about my voice, it’s honestly a bit surreal. I’ve just learnt to work with it, rather than control it. It’s intuitive.
Let’s go back in time. When did you realise you wanted to be a musician?
Oh, always. Since I was four or five. I remember watching The Little Mermaid, the scene where she loses her voice, then sings again. I copied her and thought, “Wait, that’s not too far off!” Then I started singing in front of people. I’ve always been better in one-on-one settings, but singing gave me a voice in group settings. People would go quiet. It made me feel heard, and that stuck.
You studied economics at university. Was there ever a pivot?
Not really. Music was always the goal. Economics was just the degree I got because I had to graduate with something, and I was good at maths.
Who were your earliest musical influences?
The Sound of Music was huge. My mum and aunts tell me I’d be in my baby chair and throw a fit from excitement right before the yodelling marionette scene came on. Years later, I played Ya Tal3een for someone, and they said it reminded them of that exact song, and they were right. It came straight from my subconscious.
Then came Alanis Morissette. I loved how raw and blunt she was. I’ve carried some of that into Arabic songwriting, too. And, of course, Fairuz, who I’d watch with my grandmother.
Your performances often have that grand Arabic TV vibe. Was that intentional?
Very. I recently filmed something, I can’t say what yet, but it was heavily inspired by those classic performances. There’s an oud in the background, a cello, strings. One day, inshallah, I’ll perform with a full orchestra on a stage like that.
What prompted the shift from King Deco back to Dana Salah?
Confidence. I no longer felt the need to hide behind a persona. I’d been featured on Billboard and Nylon, performed to 15,000 people, and had viral songs. I’d proven something, mostly to myself. I no longer needed “King” to feel powerful.
Do you see a future for Palestinian music on the global stage?
Absolutely, and I hope to be part of that shift. Right now, it’s vital. Our community feels an urgency to be loud about who we are. To show we’re human, joyful, loving. Music is the best vehicle for that, it’s a universal language.
And how do you hope listeners feel when they hear your music?
I hope they feel connected. Curious. Empowered. And, inshallah, inspired to learn more about where this sound comes from, and the people behind it.
What advice would you give your younger self?
Stop overthinking. Make decisions. Release music.
